Disclaimer: Sara and Grissom belong to one another and even TPTB agree with me!
Author Notes: This idea came to me recently when I had an unfortunate allergic reaction that made both my eyes swell closed. I looked so pretty!! And I couldn't do anything, couldn't go to work, watch TV, read etc… so I daydreamed! ;)
A huge thank you to everyone who has commented and emailed about all my recent stories – I'm so behind on my review replies and I'm sorry, but I want you to know how much I appreciate all of you x
Damaged At Best.
By Rianne
In his head he saw himself jumping in front of her.
Shielding her, blocking her, protecting her.
Saw the moment repeated over and over and over.
And he made it every time.
Every single time.
And that full force blow slammed into his chest, winding him, instead of slamming into her delicate face and sending her hard across the room like a life-sized rag doll.
But it hadn't happened like that.
He hadn't been the brave man. The heroic man. Even the man in the right place at the right time.
And it filled his stomach with something acrid and black, something that kept trying to twist up through his body and consume him.
Guilt, fear, inadequacy?
The only thing he felt for certain in his scattered mind was that it made him angry.
There had been nothing he could have done, and realistically he knew that.
He couldn't have anticipated it, couldn't have expected that the docile suspect's calm demeanour hid a wild, aggravated frustration so deeply.
Yet intuition and training should have made him aware.
Experience should have made him wary.
Out of the two of them interrogating the suspect Sara was the more vulnerable, half his size, slighter frame, and weaker physicality.
He hadn't been prepared.
He had been too far away. Right across the room from her.
He hadn't backed her up, the first rule of the interrogation room.
His CSI's safety came first.
It was his fault.
She had been hurt, and all he had done in response was remain frozen in horror and uselessness.
The fist making contact with her cheek, had stolen his breath.
And he had gormlessly watched the events unfold, in unpreventable succession against his will, the seconds passing in painful slow motion.
Unable to outwardly express the way his heart winced at the sight of her body as it landed, crumpled and wounded.
She had clearly been so stunned that she was unable to move.
Unable to even curl up in self-protection.
She had just lain slumped and sprawled.
Her face already beginning to swell.
And nothing had happened for an age.
And then everything.
Brass and two others had hauled the suspect away. He had known that there was shouting and cussing and a struggle, but no sound had registered.
He hadn't been able to move, but his whole body had surged hot with an all-consuming anger.
His thoughts taking over in a roaring tangle.
He had no idea how to deal with that fury.
That feeling of ineffectualness.
That desperate surge he felt to protect her. To race over to her and cradle her in his arms and keep her close and safe.
Yet by then others had beaten him to her side.
Catherine was on the phone barking orders at emergency personnel.
And even now, after a hurried journey to the ER, that twisting internal sensation hadn't lessened.
In fact the urge to shelter her had only increased. The need to find where Brass had restrained the bastard who had dared to… and… and…
No.
He brought a mental wall up to prevent that thought and the others that would have followed.
The accompanying breath a chest shuddering fight.
As much as he would want to.
Just no…
He wasn't a violent man, violence never solved anything.
The journey from the hospital had not helped calm him, she had been so quiet.
Too quiet.
She was never quiet.
She was never so accepting of such a fuss.
She hadn't argued with them when she had been told that she needed to be checked out by a doctor. He had never known her to just allow help like this.
Even when the Lab had exploded and she had gazed up at him from the pavement with wide eyes and a cradled hand she had fought the idea of being treated.
Today she had been lead and had followed willingly.
Sara hated being controlled and manipulated.
She didn't even take direction well.
Her listless actions worried him, and so he paced.
Back and forth, round and round, meandering a distracted pattern through the order of the worn hospital tiles.
For he had no order right now and following it, or faking it, failed him.
So he walked the floors like thousands before him, patients, doctors and panicking relatives, wearing away the surface with their worry.
Behind the gaudy patterned curtain the nurse was talking quietly, he could see their shadows.
He couldn't hear Sara's responses, if she gave any, but he could see her outline and watching that grey shadow against the stripy pastel patterned fabric was enough for now.
Honestly it wouldn't do anyone any good for him to be seen right now.
He was too angry, too scattered, too different from what he usually represented to the world.
The smell of antiseptic had him nauseous, and that and the way his stomach twisted at the thought of Sara being hurt and its replays across his tired psyche was a very bad combination.
The buzz of background activity sounded hollow and far away.
Emergency cases bursting in with paramedics shouting jargon and doctors flocking close to heal.
Other people's traumas. Others nightmares coming true.
He couldn't think about them right now.
So they just slowly filtered out until they were no longer a thunderous reminder that he was lucky. His… close one… colleague… CSI… friend …was healthy by comparison.
Sara was going to be fine. Bruised, but fine.
She couldn't see him like this. He needed to pull himself together.
She was troubled enough, and for the life of him, for reasons he still just couldn't figure it out, she always knew when things weren't just right with him. Was always there to push him into emotional complications, sometimes without realizing she was doing it, that she was challenging him to question all he held back from her. All the things he didn't let anyone know he felt.
He needed the focus to be on her right now, where it belonged.
But his anxiety was growing, her check-up was taking too long, it felt like they had been in that little cubicle, and away from his careful and concerned monitoring eye, for an eternity.
He took up pacing again, measuring his steps so that each footfall landed inside each tile, afraid to step on the cracks like a child.
Trying to create order, trying to harness calm, fight against fretfulness.
And as he paced a short, but precious, flickering of memory rose.
"What's your pulse at now?"
He closed his eyes a moment as if to keep the feel of her gentle palm against his cheek and the warmth of her lopsided smile close.
The artificial light felt harsh when he opened them again and it made his tired eyes ache. Rubbing across his brow helped little, but the thought of leaving her to take a moments air outside didn't even enter his brain.
He wasn't leaving.
And then the curtain was being drawn back and he straightened with it.
Forcing his shoulders back and his lips to break the grim line that they had been cemented into.
Unable to prevent the few steps he took forward in anticipation of seeing her again.
The nurse bustled past him, busy, pausing only for a millisecond to throw a small reassuring smile his way.
But it was Sara he wanted to see.
She was sat on the very edge of the small hospital bed.
And she didn't raise her face.
She didn't look at him, she just picked up her coat holding it close like a shield and stepped past him, trying not to limp, leaving him alone by the bedside.
000000
She didn't remember most of it.
There had been a hard blast of air and then the floor had fallen out beneath her.
And then there had been pain.
White hot spots in her vision.
The floor had come up to meet her, slamming against her hip, and then it had been quiet for a while.
Peaceful.
And then there had been motion and people over her, telling her not to move as if she could, and paramedics and fussing and movement.
And she had just reeled.
Had wanted nothing more than to return to that quiet.
It took time before she figured out what had happened.
Hit, she had been hit.
By a suspect. In an interrogation. From nowhere.
And then everything had just drifted by after that, the first burst of pain so harsh it had momentarily numbed.
But now as the nurse chattered away she found she couldn't concentrate upon anything she was told, everything was fighting for her attention over and above the desperate throb of her cheek, and the dull ache of her hip.
There was nothing broken, she could have told them that, but they took x-rays anyway, checking her orbital bone, her pelvis, blasting her already battered body with radiation.
And Grissom hovered.
She had felt very aware of his presence as she had sat in just her t-shirt and underwear as the rotation of her hip had been examined. Her bared skin cold and self-conscious, wishing she had worn fuller underwear and different socks. Her skin looked deathly white under the unyielding blue-tinged light.
He was still there. Outside the ludicrous ephemeral privacy of her examination bay.
She could see him pacing. His feet and the bottom few inches of his trousers visible in weaving motion under the cubical curtain.
And then she was allowed to dress, trying to sit taller once fully clothed again, as if ready for battle and then she was finally being set free. The nurse was leaving and he was stepping forward, but she couldn't let him see. Would not let him see what had been done to her.
She hadn't seen herself yet, but she could imagine and she didn't want him to see her like that.
She wasn't sure she could take the pity and her avoidance was the only thing keeping her together right now.
She would not cry.
There were semi-permanent dints in her lower lip that were a testament to that.
She could not afford to show weakness. Not here.
So she concentrated upon keeping it together, whilst they waited for the pharmacist to bag up her pain medication, whilst they hovered for Greg to arrive with Grissom's car, whilst they headed outside climbed in and without any room for discussion headed for her home.
000000
She didn't look at him.
But he saw the way that other people looked at her.
Taking in her injuries, the darkened and swollen flesh seeming harsher in the electric lighting.
There was pity and fear in their eyes.
And he also saw the way that they looked at him.
Curious, apprehensive, suspecting.
They wondered if he had done that to her.
They wondered why he hadn't stopped it from happening.
No one said a word to him, but the questions, the accusations in their eyes were clear.
It was lucky perhaps that she kept her face shaded by her hair, that she walked looking down at her feet as they crossed the parking lot and climbed into the car.
But he moved closer to her, as if proximity alone would shelter her.
It wasn't fair that she had to be subjected to the prying of strangers.
And she was still silent.
All the way to her home, her face tilted away from him, pretending to look out of the window at the world passing, even though he knew that her eye was far too swollen by now for her to be seeing anything of the blur roaring by.
She hadn't wanted him to take her home, that had been loud and clear in the stiff way she held herself. Yet gone was her usual determination to fight.
What was she thinking?
He wanted to know.
He wanted to just open his mouth and ask her.
Yet, what could he say?
Her body language balked light conversation and as king of avoidance himself how could he question her this way and not be a hypocrite?
He reasserted the grim line of his lips. The thin skin there taking the brunt of his barely repressed aggression.
Stubborn, they were both so damn stubborn.
But whatever his own failings he had good qualities too. He was patient to a fault, studying bugs decompose all manner of living things had given him plenty of practise.
He could wait her out.
And in the meantime he could take comfort in just being beside her.
That was calming enough.
Was taking the edge off this obsession to guard that he had never felt this strongly before.
That didn't mean she wasn't worryingly quiet.
But he couldn't think of anything he could say to alleviate this tension between them.
She was in pain and clearly exhausted, words couldn't fix that.
She needed to be home, to rest and sleep. And at least those were things he could do something about.
His fingers twitched on the wheel, wondering if he should put on the radio, fill up the aching air with something, anything?
But before he could deliberate it was too late, her home came into view and she was moving, he didn't even have time to unhook his seatbelt before she was racing away with those long strides of hers slightly irregular.
Favouring her left side, even though the doctor had cleared her hip, she was probably bruised black and blue.
He sat for a moment, and twitched nervously, weighing up whether or not to follow her.
And in the end his protective instinct won out.
She didn't even turn as he reached her shoulder, biting his lip as he saw the way her fingers trembled as she fought to fit her key into the lock.
But he let her, this was something she could do for herself and her demeanour clearly shouted that this was no time for him to interfere.
He didn't expect a vocal invite into her home, but he also didn't expect to be so dismissed.
She disappeared into the cool shadows of her apartment without looking back, without even closing her door behind her.
He pondered for another moment, before he carefully removed the keys from her door lock and closed it, enclosing them.
000000
She felt him hover nervously.
Heard the click of the door closing, the faint jangle of metal against metal as he withdrew the keys.
Then he was hovering again, and she could feel him watching her.
His attention hadn't left her the entire drive home.
He had been chameleon like, one eye on her, one on the road.
They were lucky that they had made it to her place in one piece.
And as awkward as the car journey had been, his being here now was worse.
She didn't have concussion, the Doctor had said so, she just had a few bruises and a banging headache, but nothing a few days couldn't fix.
He could go now without having a guilty conscience, he'd brought her home safely.
She could think of nothing right now, but knocking back a few of the pills the doctor had prescribed, taking a long hot shower to wash the hospital off her, curling up into a ball under her bedcovers and waiting for it all to go away.
This was her safe place.
Full of familiar things.
Her comfort.
She wanted normal, and his being here wasn't normal.
He was something unfathomable, familiar and yet still a mystery and his nervousness was making hers grow. Making her question his motives for being here.
Frustration reawakening a long held resentment, damning him again for never being able to commit to an emotion and express it.
The pained confusion in his expression had followed her all the way to the hospital and right back here, and if it made him that uncomfortable to be here he should just go.
She didn't have the strength for visitors right now, however well meaning their attentions.
And with Grissom there were of course all the other multitude of layers.
She had to let him know she was fine, he'd leave then.
But right now she couldn't pull it off, she couldn't lie to his face and get away with it.
He knew her to well.
She needed time to rehearse her poker face.
She pulled the pills from the paper pharmacy bag, trying to ignore the rattle of them against the plastic container as her fingers trembled.
The glasses were in the cupboard above her sink, but there was one out on the draining board from before her shift, not the most sanitary, but it would do.
She was even able to turn it the right way up and place it back on the counter without making a sound.
Water was in the fridge, cold against her fingers, the bottle top opening with a rough tearing of plastic teeth.
She poured the liquid without issue, the glug loud.
But the prescription bottle, with its damn childproof cap.
She couldn't do it.
She couldn't damn well do it.
Not with him watching her.
Her fingers worked ineffectually.
Tears filling her uninjured eye, threatening to fall, blurring her already disadvantaged vision.
And then the sob came.
Loud, frustrated and sad, like a wounded animal.
She couldn't hold it in.
And she had to bite her lip hard to keep the rush of more sobs as they welled up.
He had to have heard it, even from right across the room.
But he didn't say anything.
Instead he slowly came up behind her, carefully took the bottle from her still trembling fingers.
His own gentle and warm.
Twisted the cap off with ease.
Cupped her palm in one of his and shook out two white pills into it.
And when she didn't move, caught unawares by his touch, he gently nudged her back into action, lightly stroking his thumb over the heel of her hand.
The first tear escaped then, sliding down her cheek.
She didn't know what to do with this, she wasn't used to tenderness.
The pills were gulped down with a gasp for air.
She wanted to thank him, but she couldn't, when she tried to speak the wave of emotion threatened to drown her.
Her chin fell to her chest, looking down at the counter top beneath her.
She took a swallow, long and hard.
Her eye was throbbing with her heartbeat now.
"Thank you," it was barely a whisper, but it was out there now, even if he thought she was only thanking him for liberating her pills.
She felt the heat of him against her back as he leant closer.
His exhaled breath stirred her hair as her shushed her, barely a sound.
"No," her whisper was harsher, her fingers flexed against the counter as she tried to arrange the thoughts in her head into coherent sentences.
And his nearness, when she was in such a state of vulnerability, was not helping at all.
"I… I can't help it," she had to say it, she felt she had to explain, "I feel like a frightened little girl again when someone hits me."
She felt him stiffen.
Since the night she had told him about her family, told him all the gory details in shattered fragments, they hadn't spoken again of her childhood, and they had never spoken of the events leading up to the night her mother had killed her father.
It had been implied, and he was smart enough to have figured it out and imagined the filler for the holes she had left silent in her story.
She had frightened him with her revelation; she had seen it in his eyes, even as he had tried to hide it from her.
No one ever knew what to do when she finally told them, it was why she held back the information, why she only told those she had too.
It changed the way they viewed her, changed the way they spoke to her, looked at her, treated her.
Smashed all her hard work, her hard won pride, all the aching of keeping her shoulders straight and her head high.
But Grissom had been different, he hadn't smothered her in pity, hadn't swept her up in an uncomfortable hug, which would have felt wrong and forced.
He had let her be, patiently allowing her to spill her terrible story, to release a little of the pressure within her.
And as she had started to cry, he had carefully reached out and taken her hand, curling his bigger, warmer fingers around hers.
An offer of strength, of silent support, of quiet understanding.
Just like now.
"No one was ever there afterwards."
She took his quiet for confusion and again scrambled to explain herself, becoming more flustered, exhaustion tangling her thought processes.
"There was never anyone there after to see if I was okay… only lies and silence, and avoidance. There was no one to ask for help…"
Her voice broke, and the tears came, making her injured eye sting.
She didn't want to have to be so strong anymore.
She felt fractured, weak, confused and angry. Tired, just so tired. She had been fighting to be strong her whole life.
And it hurt her own heart to feel so broken.
She was so damaged she didn't even know how to respond when someone cared.
Because no one had ever cared before.
"So… for all the times I haven't seemed like I appreciate… you…"
The words were lost to another sob.
He meant so much to her and she couldn't even get the words out to tell him.
He breathed her name, so soft, so sadly, carefully turning her to face him.
But she closed her eyes.
An effort to stem the tears, to hide from the pity that was sure to be in his gaze.
She could hear his breathing through her private darkness.
It was unsteady, just like hers.
Filled with pain.
Her chest ached with the need to sob, it hitched uncontrolled as she tried to breathe.
The back of his index finger tilted her face up to his.
And she allowed herself to be guided by him.
His touch so light, and intimate.
Genuine and easy to trust.
She could feel his attentive focus; feel him visually examining her eye.
Then she felt it.
So feather light she might well have been dreaming.
The softest caress of his lips to the sensitive curve of her swollen cheekbone.
His lips breezing over her eyelashes, causing them to tingle with sensation.
Her tremble filled gasp was followed by the rumble of uncontrollable tears.
Her shoulders shaking as the avalanche of sobs broke free.
And he was instinctively pulling her close and it felt right this time.
True and unforced.
His fingers sliding into her hair. Her scalp tingling as the strands slid through his caress.
Her forehead falling to press against the pound of his heart.
Feeling his chest press against hers for the first time.
She remained still in his arms, hands limp and swaying by her sides, unwilling to commit to this, too afraid to.
Waiting for the bubble to burst, for him to realize what he was doing and shatter the moment, for him to pull away with embarrassment and regret.
Afraid to learn what she was missing.
To not have him there to hold her like this the next time she felt this way.
But instead of running for the hills he drew her even closer, his palm slowly beginning to stroke over the curve of her back, spreading warmth.
She was very aware of the beat of her own heart.
It was like it could hear his and was surging up to echo back his beat.
And those lonely hands of hers twitched at her sides, before being instinctively drawn, sliding slowly, encircling him in return.
Relaxing completely into this rare moment of comfort.
Her breath escaping in a slow exhale.
And he held her, whilst her tears melted into gentle sighs, and she wavered dreamy and half asleep in his arms.
And when they finally moved apart, she felt a new shyness, and a new understanding.
And he looked shy too, smiling at her, his blue eyes vulnerable and dark, and no longer as guilty as they had been at the hospital.
He left not long after, quietly wishing her a goodnight, and telling her that he better not see her at work for a full twenty-four hours.
She nodded in response, even though both knew she had no intention of keeping to that nodded promise.
And once he had gone she slowly clambered into her bed, but no longer felt the urge to cry in a ball, instead she fell soothed and faintly smiling into a deep dreamless sleep, her arms unconsciously curling tight around her pillow.
000000
He walked away from her home with the scent of her still on him.
And it was wonderful.
The ghost of her embrace caressing his skin, the way she had held him, her fingers tight in his shirt, their bodies close enough for him to feel her heart beating.
And he had drawn great comfort from her touch too, the thought bringing a faint smile to his face.
He had offered the right thing, the right help.
It had felt really good to step up and offer her comfort. To be able to do something about her pain and her tears.
To make up for his uselessness earlier.
To finally be her knight in shining armour when she had really needed it.
In that horrible moment when it's all over and there is no one around and the horror of the experience tends to seep back into your thoughts.
He felt better, reassured that she would be okay, for tonight.
He looked back up to her apartment, the curtains were drawn.
She needed to sleep now.
He'd call her to check in later.
Maybe take her to breakfast.
His smile grew at the thought of sharing a simple meal with her.
Yes, breakfast… the perfect place to start.